And that is why I Love You
by Whas'up
Summary: A killer that writes love notes to Chief Johnson is murdering woman across Los Angelos. The thing that links them? They remind the killer of a blonde haired, brown eyed Deputy Chief.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHORS NOTE: Okey Dokey, this is a Closer fiction (obviously, haha). Takes place some time before season six, a time when Daniels still worked with these fine people (season...four? maybe? I should check that out sometime). Or maybe it takes place in an alternate universe where Daniels stayed on the team, which means this could be in season five if you prefer...hmmm...how about it takes place when you want it to. You all have independent thought, right?**

Her mother had invited herself to California.

Fritz was mad at her for some reason and she couldn't remember why and had been too exhausted to ask him.

Her car had started acting just plain odd on her drive to work, the radio turning on without her wanting it too and playing the most annoying love songs in the whole history of music.

On her elevator ride up to the sixth floor she was trapped with an almost hysterical beat cop who chose that moment to confide in the first woman he saw, telling her that it wasn't his fault and that he really did love his wife and he would never cheat with a that whore Emily again.

When she pulled away from the beat cop, leaving the elevator a floor too early just to make her hasty escape, the heel of one of her favorite pink shoes broke off. Her hands were full, she was exhausted and her balance and coordination wasn't all that great just now, were the things she thought of as she made her short trip to the floor. She also had the irrational thought that if she'd taken that one extra minute in the car and eaten that chocolate bar hiding in her glove box this could have all been avoided.

To make the fall just a little bit better, a little bit extraordinary, she plopped with no grace at the feet of Commander Taylor, whose face was caught in an intense battle between concern and amusement.

She shuffled herself around, shoving uncooperating papers in her hands as she greeted Taylor as if nothing at all had happened and they had just accidently brushed shoulders. She looked up at him, a false smile plastered on her painted lips, and knew immedietly that Commander Taylor was worried about her. Which made her angry and she didn't know why.

"Hey," he said, kneeling down on one knee, laying a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder, "Chief, are you alright?" he asked, somehow asking her about everything, her whole life up till this second, in just one question.

She was tired. She was late for work. She had just fallen and actually thought she might be hurt. But most of all, and most importantly, she hadn't eaten anything yet that morning and felt hollow and empty and really needed something yummy to chew on to get herself together. But she didn't have something yummy, she had a tall, stern, manuevering black man who alternately seemed to like her and hate her. Her bottom lip started to tremble, which made her furious, how dare her bottom lip do something so embarrassing as that? She drew the renagade piece of her face into her mouth, biting down on it as she shook her head in a 'haha don't be silly' motion.

Taylor's hand moved closer to her neck and squeezed, just a little pressure, he looked at her closely, as if making sure she could feel it, making sure she had the appropriate expression on her face as he did so. Brenda said something bitchy then, she couldn't recall what, something about her and his rank, or about her Divisions track record compared to his, but whatever she had said, she had expected Taylor to walk away, shooting an equally snipy remark over his shoulder. But he just helped her with her strewn papers, helped her stand, held her elbow while she took off her broken shoes and looked at her curiously as she limped towards the stairwell.

In the stairwell, right between floors five and six, Brenda Leigh had a tiny, miniscule, ridiculously itsy cryng fit. She sat on the concrete steps, her poor broken shoes cradled in her arms as if she'd lost a child and not a pair of pumps. But try as she might, and she did try, my god did she try, she couldn't shake the feeling that her shoes, these shoes that had been with her since her time in D.C., were valued friends who had carried her for years and who in their moment of weakness would be thrown in the trash can of her office. Things started to catch up to her then, like why was Fritz mad, and why was her Mama coming when she hadn't asked her, and why, _why _did her favorite pair of shoes, her reliable, beautiful, pink shoes have to go and break? Didn't they _know _how awful her day had been? Weren't they sitting right on that kitchen table when she'd gotten off the phone with her Mama and had ranted into the empty sink? Weren't they dangling from her fingers when Fritz had screamed at her that morning?

Didn't they love her, like _she _loved _them_?

It was at that point that she decided that this whole thing was ludicrus and that she was _not _going to be a woman who cried over a pair of shoes. She stood, marched up the steps to her floor and flung the door open wide, striding with a confidence she didn't feel, her bare feet slapping against the less than clean floor. And it wasn't until she stood in the middle of her squad room, every pair of eyes in that open space pointed at her, that she remembered that she'd literaly rolled out of bed that morning, thrown on the first thing she could find, and left the house, leaving Fritz smouldering in their bedroom.

"Chief, you look like shit!" Flynn called from his desk, his voice a blend of reproach, shock, and concern, his squinted eyes surverying her in surprise as he leaned back in his chair, as if to seperate himself from her, apparently, disasterous appearnce.

"Well thank you, Lieutenant," she said quietly, limping while trying to make it look like she wasn't limping to her office as fast as her lumbering pace could allow.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see both the Detective Daniels, so pretty with curls in her hair, and Lieutenant Provenza, sleeves rolled up on his crinkly white shirt, throw pencils at Flynn, who batted them away without looking, his gaze still following Brenda's petite form as she neared her office.

And as she closed the glass door to her office she heard his clear voice, "Seriously, she looked like shit. She was limping, Provenza, is she alright?"

"Who am I? Her father," Provenza said, his acid tone slashing across the room towards Flynn, "Go ask her yourself."

But Flynn didn't get up, Brenda could see him through her glass walls as she shut the door, he sat at his desk, looking sneakily over his shoulder at her and then back at his desk. She sighed as she turned away, placing her lovely shoes inside the cabinet behind her chair, she turned, scanned the room, and opened her snack drawer. She pulled out a nutty and fantastic piece of chocolate, she unwrapped it carefully, fondling it and caressing it like she would a lover, she took the chocolate and raised it to her lips, eyes closed, blissful expression on her face as the candy melted on her tongue. She leaned back in her chair, moaning softly as some semblance of peace entered her mind.

She stayed that way, even after the candy had melted all away, she stayed that way for a good few minutes. She didn't feel like moving. She didn't feel like ever getting up from her chair, or leaving her office, or really ever going any place where someone might yell at her, impose on her, or make her feel like she needed taking care of. Those were three things Brenda Leigh didn't like.

Brenda opened her eyes, looked straight through her glass walls and saw Provenza looking at her from his desk, which was twenty feet away, but parallel to her own. He nodded his head, stating clearly that 'yes, I was watching you, and you better be alright.' She smiled back, waving slightly, the empty candy wrapper still in her hand. She saw him roll his eyes and look back down to the paperwork in front of him, and that filled her with nice feelings. Because Provenza was Provenza no matter who Brenda Leigh was or how she felt that day, she could be dying of a gunshot wound and Provenza would still be Provenza.

She threw her wrapper onto her desk, where it blended in with the many others residing there, before she looked in front of her properly. And for the first time since she entered her office she saw a pink envelope propped against her computer screen. In a messy hand 'Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson' was scrawled across it in black ink, Brenda frowned at the misspelling of her middle name and plucked it from her desktop. She opened it without any real interest, knowing it wouldn't be from Fritz or her squad, or even Will Pope who she hoped knew how to spell her name. He was her boss after all, bosses usually knew how to spell their employees names, unless they were difficult or something. Brenda's name wasn't difficult, was it? She frowned as she unfolded the crisp white paper taken from the envelope.

"Allison looks alot like you. She's blonde."

Brenda's frown became deeper, more serious. Those two sentances, written by an unamed person and delivered to her office, was enough to instantly make her adrenaline skyrocket.

"Allison will die tonight. She will be walking home from the supermarket, a gallon of milk in one hand, a bag filled with fresh produce in the other. She doesn't like candy. But she still looks like you. Her head will be down, her eyes trained on the ground because, really, she will be more worried about tripping in the dark then a man with a knife stabbing her. If she looks up she might have time to run away, she's healthy, and thin like you. But she won't be looking up, and won't be able to avoid the cold, biting metal as it twists itself into her insides and tears her apart.

She'll probably gasp and drop what is in her hands, the milk gallon will fall to the ground and split open."

Brenda stood up, sending her chair reeling backwards as her trembling hands held the crisp paper. The door to her office opened, and CIA trained senses knew that at least three people had entered her office, all men.

"And the stench of that milk, spoiled after lingering all night around poor Allison, will what force you to feel sick tomorrow. That smell, that nauseating smell, is what will take you out of your comfort zone, it won't be Allison's big brown eyes (so much like yours) staring at you from the pavement, it won't be her wide lips pale and screaming silently or the blood flung everywhere that will force you to flinch. It will be the smell of old milk.

And that is why I love you,

Yours Truly."

Brenda looked up, brown eyes staring out at Flynn, Provenza, and Detective Sanchez, who stood before her desk looking at her like she was suddenly made of glass. "Chief?" Flynn asked, the tone of his voice making it clear that this was not the first time he'd tried to get her attention.

She placed the paper down on her desk, blinking, "I need SID in here," she said rounding her desk, drawing her purse towards her like a shield.

"Chief?" Provenza said, his gruff voice confused. He reached towards the paper on her desk, intending to read what some asshole had written to get her worked up.

But she turned on him, "No!" she screeched, her southern inflection suddenly turning up full, "Don't nobody touch a thang in this office, get SID in here now, I need prints off of that," she said, pointing at the pink envelope and the disturbing letter it had contained.

"What's going on Chief?" Sanchez asked, as he was shooed out of the office. "What did that say?"

She closed the door behind her, looking at that decievingly sweet pink envelope on her desk, "SID," she said, stonily and venomously cold, but still with that honey coated twang.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: If Brenda Leigh Johnson belonged to me that would be weird and I wouldn't know what to say.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHORS NOTE: Alright, so I saw that someone else had published a Closer story and I was no longer at the top of the list and that made me completely, totally, and irrationally angry. I must be first.**

The milk gallon hadn't split open. It had most assuredly fallen from Allison's grip and hit the concrete, but evidently milk jugs were made of stronger stuff then the killer had realized and it had merely bounced away from her slightly. To Brenda Leigh it was hilarious, she was sure it shouldn't be, seeing as there was a dead body close at hand, but knowing that the killer had been wrong in his little prediction was funny as hell. Or else it wasn't and Brenda was just losing her mind due to sleep deprivation.

The evelope and letter had had no prints on them besides Brenda's. Maintaince records had shown that no unauthorized persons entered the sixth floor. There were one thousand six hundred and three Allison's with blonde hair and brown eyes living in Los Angelos, according to DMV records.

Her squad had worked late into the night, Brenda hadn't returned home at all. And all for nothing, because lying at Brenda's feet was a woman named Allison Wiston. A dead woman named Allison Wiston.

Allison Wiston had honey blonde hair, ringlets tied back with a bow. She had large brown eyes, open and starring sightless somewhere over Brenda's shoulder. She had a wide mouth, bloodstained and twisted, as if she had screamed and screamed until the very moment of her death. Looking at Allison Wiston was like looking into a mirror. A distorted and bloody mirror, but a mirror all the same.

Brenda Leigh looked at Allison and saw herself.

She turned away from the body, leaving it behind her as she pulled her cellphone from her purse. She wanted to call Fritz, well, what she really wanted was to be wrapped in his arms, but since that would recquire one of them to drive to the other she decided a phone call would have to be sufficient. She got to her contacts, scrolled down until Fritzy was illuminated before her eyes and then she paused, her thumb hovering over the green button. She thought suddenly, 'he doesn't want to talk to me.' His screaming face, all the way from yesterday morning, popped up in her mind. He'd screamed at her, and when she hadn't come home that night he'd left an awful message on her phone. He said, his voice scratchy on the message, that she should love him more and her job less.

Brenda snapped her phone shut with a sigh, cradling it in her hand, looking at it with frustration. "Fiddlesticks," she murmered, gnawing on her bottem lip despondently.

She loved Fritz, didn't the big jerk know that? She loved him, she trusted him, she married him and called him her husband. Wasn't that enough? What more did she need to do? She loved him.

Brenda got angry, Brenda got really freaking angry, Brenda threw her phone to the ground. She wanted to scream, she wanted to find Fritz and scream at him and hit him and tell him how much she loved him, how _dare _he say otherwise. Her phone smashed into pieces, the poorly made plastic pittering away on the concrete as Brenda threaded pale fingers through her hair, breathing deeply as she tried to calm herself.

"uh," an uncertain voice muttered while an impatient finger tapped Brenda's shoulder, "Chief? Chief, there's something you should see." It was Flynn, who looked down at Brenda with a frown, looked down at her smashed phone and frowned more, and them simply turned from her like he would any over emotional woman.

Brenda followed him, her borrowed sneakers squeaking inelegantly beneath her, "What is it?" she asked, her tone edging on bitchy.

He led her back to Allison, pointing down to where Tao was kneeling by the body. Tao dangled a golden chain between his fingers, a simple, golden, circular pendant swinging in the light breeze. Flynn took it, holding it out for Brenda to inspect, "Is this yours Chief?" he said quietly, looking at her intently.

"What? No it's not, that's-" but she stopped speaking, because it _was _hers, she recognized it. She took the simple necklace, her gloved hand gently running over the chain, "This...how?"

Flynn shrugged his shoulders, "It says Brenda on the back, Chief."

Brenda turned it over, reading the inscription on the back of the pendant, "To my brown eyed girl, My Dear Brenda," she read aloud, remembering her wonderful grandfather. Her grandfather who had given her the necklace the day she turned fourteen. Brenda Leigh felt something within her snap. She didn't know what, she didn't care what, because she was reasonably sure it wasn't her sanity or her spine. Since she had already stated what she wanted everyone to do, and especially since they were already doing it, Brenda felt completely at ease with simply turning around and walking away without another word. Tao caught her elbow after a few steps, he looked at her awkwardly, "The necklace Chief, we need it for SID," he said, his voice apologetic as he dug the fine chain from her stubborn grasp.

She didn't trust herself to say anything, afraid it might turn into screaming or tears, or, god forbid, both, so she nodded her head, stubbornly looking away from everyone as she rushed past them to try and reach her car. But then there was someone very serious and very short standing in front of her and she had to halt her speedy departure.

"Chief," Detective Sanchez said, his tone concerned and angry and sympathetic, and, worst of all, pitying.

"Detective," she choked out, glaring at him.

He looked over Brenda's shoulder, looking at bloodstained face twenty feet away, the face that reminded him so much of hers. "That necklace was in your house, wasn't it?" he asked.

She shook her head, already refusing to what he would eventually insist upon.

He took a step closer to her, "That necklace was in a drawer beside your bed, or in a box on your counter, maybe in your closet. Wasn't it?"

"Julio," she growled, narrowed eyes glinting at him dangerously. But he didn't care, of course he didn't, because she was his Chief and she was in the sights of some psycho who liked to stab people.

"Chief," he said, equally serious, "this guy knows where you live, knows where you work, probably knows more about you than I do. You can't go home. Get Agent Howard to bring some stuff from home, because the two of you can't be in your house while this guy is loose."

"We are perfectly capable of-"

"Do I need to get Chief Pope on the phone, Chief?" he interupted, acquiring his phone without seeming to move at all.

Some thoughts ran through Brenda's head, such as 'little fink is going over my head', and 'god, please let that chocolate bar be in the glovebox.' Some of her less then nice thoughts were clearly evident on her face.

"I just want you safe," Sanchez said, his tone so earnest that Brenda, with a sigh and bad grace, agreed to stay in a hotel.

Not half an hour later Brenda Leigh unlocked her front door and walked into her house. She hadn't been lying when she'd told Sanchez she would stay in a hotel, honestly she wasn't, but she was perfectly capable of collecting her own things, she didn't need Fritz or anybody to get them for her. She checked her whole house, walking from room to room, her weapon drawn. When she had absolutely convinced herself that she was alone she walked to her bedroom unhindered, stripping off her old stenchy clothes on her way. She needed a shower, and a bowl of ice cream, but the ice cream would have to wait.

A whole _forty _minutes later she emerged from her steamy bathroom, feeling clean and completely herself again. She wrapped herself in a thick purple towel, reaching for her hair brush as her eyes scanned her room, mentaly going through her closet, trying to find the best thing to wear.

And there, right on her bed, was a pink envelope 'Brenda Lee Johnson' written on it in a sloppy hand.

She sprang for her gun, sitting just as she'd placed it on her vanity, with the gun in her hand she felt less vulnerable, even in just a towel. She searched her whole house _again _and still found nothing. Every door was locked, every window secure, absolutely nothing looked different and yet Brenda knew that it was. It was with a sense of unreality that she approached her bedroom, looking at the envelope questioningly. She should have called for back up immedietly, she should have called her squad, she should have called Fritz, but she didn't, for the simple truth that she wanted to know what the letter said and simply forgot what she _should _be doing.

She grasped the thin pink paper delicately as she pulled something from its depths.

It wasn't a letter, it wasn't even a note. It was a simple picture. A picture of _her, _of Brenda_._

Her hair pulled up, a sweetheart red dress on under a white sweater, long legs bare, smile wide and unassuming. Brenda didn't remember having her picture taken.

She turned the photo over and there, written in the same sloppy hand as her name, was one sentance.

_'Savanah owns a dress just like this.'_

**DISCLAIMER: oh my daaarrrling, oh my daaaarrrrrrling, oh my daaaarliiiing clementine, you are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorrow clementine**


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHORS NOTE:**

Brenda sat on top of Provenza's desk, a frown on her naked lips, her unstyled hair hanging free and curly about her head as Sanchez pierced her with dissapointed eyes. "You promised you'd get a hotel room," he said, sounding like the young man he really was, the young man who thought people kept their promises.

Brenda trailed her fingers over her hair, "I _am _getting a hotel-"

"You could have been killed," Flynn called out from his desk, frowning at her with a toothpick between his lips. When she turned to glare at him he did not respond with a smirk or shrug, he was deadly serious.

Brenda was starting to get frustrated, really, she couldn't even go to her own house to shower? To get a change of clothes? What, was she suddenly a thirteen year old girl? "Now ya'll," she started, her tone severe.

"Don't you ya'll us, Chief," Provenza said, somehow mocking both her and her accent with only the tone of his voice. He shooed her off his desk gruffly and sat down in his chair as he crossed his arms.

She huffed and pierced her whole squad with angry eyes, "I'm fine," she cried, her arms flailing as if to illustrate her point.

"You could have been killed," Flynn repeated, as if Brenda was a little slow and needed to hear something a few times before she understood. He stood and walked away from his desk, he pointed towards the murder board, pointed at the photo of Allison Wiston they had taken from DMV records. "A _murderer_ is _after you_," he said, carefully pronouncing every word as he walked closer to Brenda.

Brenda looked at Allison's photo, something beginning to click in her mind.

"He came into your house while you were in the shower," Flynn continued, "he could have grabbed your gun, he could have taken you. He'd already been in your house once before," Flynn stopped and looked shocked for a moment, "we think it was once," he said, realizing this for the first time, "he could have gone to your house a millions times, he could know every detail of your life! How did he know where that goddamned necklace of yours was?" He came to stand right in front of her and realized that she hadn't been listening to him.

Brenda walked past him, gazing at the murder board, "He could have killed me," she said quietly, and everyone in the room nodded as if she was an idiot. She turned to them, "but he didn't."

Gabriel looked at her, "He didn't kill you," he repeated, nodding his head as he retrieved a copy of the first note from his desk. He read it and looked at her, his eyes questioning, "He doesn't threaten you in the note, and he didn't kill you."

"He says he loves me," Brenda said, her tone calculating as she tried to piece this puzzle together.

Daniels frowned, "Killing these girls is like, what, some kind of gift?"

Brenda curled a hand over her chin and tilted her head, she was about to respond with her thoughts when a door slammed and a very angry looking Fritz walked into her squad room. "Brenda!" he called, stomping past her and towards her office, he stopped by her door and pointed at it with a severe frown.

She took a step towards her husband and then paused, she really, really didn't want a fight. What she wanted was a hug, but the set of Fritz's face made it pretty obvious he wasn't in the hugging mood. She fidgeted nervously and tried to smile at him, "Fritz," she called, her voice purposfully pitched just the way her husband liked it.

He looked away from her and entered her office. Brenda looked at her squad, most of whom looked uncomfortable and awkward. She let out a deep breath and walked to her office.

Fritz had his hands in his hair when she walked in, he looked rumpled, messy, "I wen't home for lunch," he said, not looking at her. "And you know what I found?"

"Fritzy," she went to stand behind him and place her two small hands on his broad back.

He turned to face her at her touch, he stared down at her and Brenda couldn't decipher the emotions in his eyes. "Police tape, a squad car, Brenda. That's what I found when I came home."

"I," she smiled, "I should have called you, I'm sorry, really-"

He cut her off with a bitter laugh, "You think, Brenda?" he said. He gathered her hands in his and cradled them to his chest, "You know what my first thought was?" he asked, his tone viscious.

Brenda shook her head.

He squeezed her hands hard enough to hurt, "I thought I was going to find you dead in our house, Brenda. I saw that yellow tape and I thought you were dead."

"I'm so sorry, really Fritz, please-"

He let go of her abruptly, he walked away from her, "Can you tell me what's happening please?" he asked.

Brenda followed in his wake, "There," she paused and looked at her desk, "there was a note on my desk yesterday. It said a woman named Allison was gonna die. That's why I didn't come home last night, we were trying to find her, save her."

He gazed out at the murder board through her glass wall, "Is that her?" he asked.

Allison's photo was prominent on the board. "Yes, that was her," Brenda responded.

Fritz turned to look at Brenda, frowning as his eyes swept over her face, "Is there a reason why she could pass for your twin?"

Brenda swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry as she fervantly wished she could be anywhere but in her office with a concerned and angry Fritz. "The killer seems to be targeting woman who-"

"Who look like you," he finished for her. He sat down heavily in a chair, scrubbing at his face with his hand, "Goddamn it!" he yelled, "Goddamn it, Brenda!" He looked up at her with such disapointment.

Brenda Leigh hated it when he did that. Like he had the right to be dissapointed in her.

"Why didn't you call me?" he demanded, "Why didn't you tell me what was going on?" he stood and grabbed her by her upper arms, shaking her with enough force to knock her head backwards. Brenda looked to the side and saw her squad looking in at them in concern, Flynn and Sanchez in particular looking like they wanted to intervene. She tried to move away, to close the blinds, but Fritz wouldn't let her go. He held her to him with enough force to bruise, "Brenda, was this guy in our house?"

Brenda opened her mouth, but couldn't find her voice. It seemed like that was answer enough for Fritz. "A murderer," he said, "was in our house? Knows where you live? Is killing women who look like you and is leaving you notes?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Brenda ran her hands up the lapels of his jacket, "I'm sorry, Fritz please-"

The door to her office banged open, and Brenda jumped away from Fritz in surprise. Daniel's stood in the doorway, her cellphone next to her ear, "We may have found Savanah," she stated with no preamble.

Brenda gathered her purse towards her, leaving Fritz behind her as she went to follow Daniel's, "Where? Who is she?"

"Savanah Richards, her husband called it in an hour ago. She's dead, she's blonde, has brown eyes, and Chief, she's wearing a red dress."

**DISCLAIMER: My brother was reading this and he went 'you could write an awesome tv show' which i took as high praise, so, one day i will have an awesome tv show, but not yet. the closer, alas, is not mine.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AUTHORS NOTE: This is great, you guys are great. I love that you are reading my words, it is such a thrill, really it is. **

"Oh shit," Flynn said, turning his head sharply to look at Brenda and ignoring her potent glare. "Chief," he went on, grabbing her by the elbow and dragging her back towards her car, "come here."

"What are you doing?" Brenda demanded, whipping her arm away from him.

And then Brenda saw what Flynn had seen, a tall man stumbling towards her. The man was sobbing, great shuddering breaths leaving his lungs as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Daniels raised her eyebrows behind her sunglasses, "I think that's the husband," she said.

There was blood on Mr. Richards shirt and pants. He looked at Brenda like she was an angel, "Savanah?" he muttered brokenly. And then he was running towards her, ignoring the uniformed police who tried to restrain him, "Savanah!" he screamed, "Savanah!"

Brenda stood, hesitating with her choices, but then it was too late, he grabbed her, pulled her clear off the ground as he clutched her to himself.

And then it was absolute chaos. Uniformed men came and tried to pull him off of her while her squad tried to grab her and extract her without harming her, and through it all Mr. Richards held her in a death grip. He began to scream, proclaiming at the top of his lungs that the police had lied to him, had told him his wife was dead when she wasn't, how they were trying to drive him insane. And he was still sobbing, and the blood on his clothes smelled of copper and was filling her nostrils and she hated the smell of copper.

She started to struggle and was able to loosen Mr. Richards hold enough for Flynn to wrap his arms around her waist. Flynn pulled at her and she had the uncomfortable image of herself being the rope in a game of tug of war. And then there was the sound of a gun cocking and one of the uniforms called out for the man to release her. Brenda could hear Provenza yelling, "Don't shoot, you idiot!" he said, "You might hit one of ours!"

This was insanity, Brenda decided.

"Stop! All y'all stop it this instant!" she called, her voice high and clear and recognizable by accent alone.

Her squad stopped moving, and when they stopped moving the uniformed men stopped moving, and when the uniformed men had stopped tugging on him Mr. Richards also stopped moving. Flynn kept his hold around her waist and she could hear him panting in her ear as she took shaky breaths. Mr. Richards was muttering into her hair and placing small kisses to her forhead, and Brenda wondered if he had any history of mental illness.

"Mr. Richards," Brenda said, her voice stern.

"Savanah," he said, his eyes closed tightly, "Oh Savanah, god."

"Mr. Richards," she repeated, "My name is Chief Brenda Johnson of-"

"Shhh," he said, shaking his head violently, "don't lie to me. Come on, don't lie, it's okay. Savanah, it's okay."

"Open your eyes," Brenda said quietly. "Mr. Richards, open your eyes right now!"

He opened his teary eyes, but looked towards the sky. "Shhh, Savanah, it's okay," he whispered.

"Look at me," when he did not she repeated herself: "Look at me when I am talking to you!"

He moved his eyes down slowly, and then he was looking at her and his face crumpled and he started shaking so badly that Brenda could feel her teeth clatter. "No, don't do that," he said, his voice angry as he practically snarled at her, "Come on, Savanah. Don't do that."

Flynn's arms around her waist tightened.

"Mr. Richards," Brenda said calmly, "My name is Brenda Leigh Johnson, look at me. I am not your wife. Please, let me down."

His gaze swept over her face and in that instant his hold on her diminished enough for Flynn to tear her away. Mr. Richards screamed in what looked like agony and was held back by three men as Flynn and Brenda overbalanced and fell to the pavement, Flynn moving to take most of the impact with a thud. "Savanah! Stop it, stop, don't do this to me! Savanah!"

Flynn sat up with Brenda held on his lap as paramedics ran forwards, shouting out things like 'hysteria' and 'shock' as they surrounded Mr. Richards. Gabriel came and kneeled beside Flynn and Brenda, placing a hand on her shoulder, concern etched deeply into his young face. "Chief?" he asked, sounding close to hysteria himself.

"I'm fine," she said, climbing off of Flynn's lap with a frown.

Provenza helped Flynn to his feet and then they both looked at her in concern. Brenda looked out and her whole squad was looking at her in _concern. _And she just couldn't take it, that second, that very moment, she couldn't take it. She threaded her fingers through her hair, a snarl on her face as she hissed, "I'm fine."

Gabriel looked hurt, which made Brenda angry, how dare he be hurt. Daniels looked confused, which made Brenda angry, how could one of her detectives be so thick? And goddamned Provenza and Flynn, who looked at her like they understood, who held pity in their eyes. Pity. Brenda Leigh didn't need anyones pity. She was fine. Everything was fine, and everyone was acting like it wasn't. Like she was going to collapse into tears. She thought she had proven her strength, she thought she was done proving herself to these people. "I am fine," she repeated, "So all y'all stop looking at me like that!" she screeched.

And she realized she was shaking, and she tried to stop but couldn't. Her breaths were leaving her in tiny shaky amounts, and she felt light headed. Which made her so _angry_. Everything was her making so _fucking angry_.

She felt an arm wrap itself around her shoulders and looked up to see Tao standing beside her, "What?" she snapped. He turned them away from the group, walking them a short distance before he stopped. He placed her in front of him, and with a flourish he produced a candy bar from his pocket.

Brenda looked at it and then back to Tao. He was smiling at her. She glared at him. How dare he think she could be appeased by candy! Even if it was very...nice looking candy. All wrapped up in a silver wrapper that said imported and apparently had three different fillings and multilayered chocolate. Brenda looked back at Tao and then back at the candy. With a sigh she reached out and snatched the candy bar from Tao, her glare softening as he chuckled.

She tore that fancy wrapper off and devoured half the bar in one gluttonous bite. And as soon as that sweet, sweet chocolate touched her tongue her senses returned to her and she was mortified. She turned towards her squad, "I ahm so sowry," she said through a mouth full of chocolate. She swallowed and walked back towards them, "I'm sorry everyone."

Gabriel took a tiny step towards her, "Chief, are you okay?" he asked.

Brenda smiled, "Yes, yes, I am."

Flynn reached out towards her right side and ran his hand down from her shoulder to her elbow, "Your sweater got ripped," he said, his fingers playing with the ripped material.

She looked down in surprise, wondering when exactly that had happened, she sucked in a breath, "That's," she shook her head, "That's okay." She smiled up at them, "Come on, let's see what we have." And with that she led them into the crime scene.

**DISCLAIMER: The Closer, I think, should be mine. Along with a long list of other television shows. But, alas, it is not meant to be.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors Note: Hello everyone! How have you been? Good? good.**

Allison Wiston was an unmarried forty-one year old fitness instructor who had recently begun planning a trip to Paris.

Savanah Richards was a married thirty-seven year old unemployed meth addict who occasionally sucked dick to pay rent.

Both their pictures now hung on the murder board, their brown eyes looking out at Brenda.

Brenda Leigh reached out as if to touch one of the photo's, but stilled her hand at the last moment. Her hand hung in the air awkwardly for a moment before she let it fall with a sigh. SID had found nothing at either of the crime scenes, and nothing on the notes left for Brenda. Without new evidence, without a new note, or new victim, the investigation was at a standstill. Hours earlier Provenza had looked out at the darkening night sky and said, "Well I'm not doing anything here, I might as well do nothing in bed," he had promptly risen from his chair donned his jacket and left. The rest of the team followed suit shortly thereafter, each bidding a farewell to their Chief. Gabriel had stopped on his way out the door, long enough to grasp Brenda's shoulder and smile, "We'll get him tomorrow, right Chief?" he said.

Hours later Brenda was still looking at the photo's of the two women, their faces, so much like her own, were burning themselves into her mind. She glanced around the room and noticed with surprise that night had fallen and no one had turned on the lights. She rubbed a weary hand over her brow as her gaze locked once more to the murder board. Without warning she started to cry. A small sob escaped, she raised both hands to cover her mouth as her shoulders began to shake. These women were dead...because of her. The resemblance between Brenda and both the murdered women was striking. There were differences of course, Savanah's nose looked like it had been broken, Allison had a narrower face, but in a passing glance all three women could pass for the same woman. Brenda leaned against Provenza's desk, shaking her head as tears leaked out of her eyes. She had seen murders, lots of murders, she had seen terrible scenes of torture and rape and so much violence, but this is what she broke down for.

The ding of the elevator doors struck Brenda from her guilt, she jerked upwards, swiping at her eyes furiously as she scurried around looking for something that would hide her obvious distress. She ran towards her office, slipping the glass door shut as quietly as she could. She peered into the squad room through the blinds in her office, and had to hold back a sigh as she caught sight of a woman with long brown hair. "That woman," Brenda hissed as she watched Sharon Raydor stomp towards Provenza's desk, a cell phone held to her ear.

Raydor threw a thick folder on the desktop, "There, you asshole!" she screeched into the phone.

Brenda's eyebrows rose in surprise and she hunkered down to eavesdrop more sneakily.

Raydor gestured wildly, her facial expression that of complete rage, "You call me, in the middle of the night-what?"

Brenda glared, wishing she could hear the person on the other end of the phone.

"So _what_ if I was in the building anyway? You call me after being a complete and utter jackass to me not two months ago, when all I was trying to do was protect the LAPD-" Her mouth opened wide in what looked like enraged confusion. "That's your excuse? Honestly Louie?"

"Louie?" Brenda whispered to herself, she shook her head, "Oh my god, Provenza," she realized.

Raydor sat down on Provenza's desk, "Just trying to fit in huh? Well what the hell? Provenza, I thought we were fine." She sighed and cradled her head in her hand as she listened to her phone. And then she continued quietly, so quietly that Brenda had to ease her door open a crack to hear her. "After what happened with Mathias," she shrugged and shook her head, "after what happened with Mathias, you had my respect, my loyalty, you helped me when no one else even cared. You earned that, Provenza. And I thought I had earned your respect too."

Oh gosh, what Brenda would have given to be able to hear Provenza's response.

Whatever he said seemed to squash the last of Raydor's anger, her shoulders sagged and her head lolled to the side. Brenda, looking through the door crack, saw the transition from cold as ice Captain Raydor to tired and overworked Sharon. Sharon Raydor nudged the file she had thrown on top of Provenza's desk, "So what's so important about this old case? I can't believe you even remember it, seeing as you were on one of your honeymoons while most of it went down."

Brenda stood up, trying to see more of the file from across the room.

Raydor opened the file, flipping through it's contents, "You think they're connected?" Raydor slid off the desk and eased herself in front of the murder board, green eyes scrutinizing everything there. "Oh my god," she whispered, reaching out and touching a copy of one of the notes left for Brenda. She turned quickly and reached for the file, rummaging for a moment before lifting a piece of paper and holding it next to the copy on the murder board. "Louie, you're right."

Brenda opened her door fully, stepping out in the dark murder room with a bang. Raydor jumped about a foot in the air, caught completely by surprise. But only for a moment, Raydor threw her phone onto Provenza's desk, instantly motioning for Brenda to move to her side. "Chief," she said, and Brenda was glad that Raydor's mind was occupied with the case and not the fact that Brenda had been spying on her like a creepy stalker. Raydor handed the paper to Brenda.

_Emily is like you in every way. _The first line read.

Brenda skimmed through the note, feeling her blood begin to boil with the knowledge that whoever this was had murdered before.

She looked up at Raydor, "Tell me everything," she ordered. "Actually, wait," she picked up Raydor's discarded phone, glad to hear that Provenza hadn't hung up, but was instead yelling to see if Raydor was okay, "Provenza," she snapped, "get everyone in here now."

"But Chief, it's four in the morning-"

"Now," she barked, before hanging up the phone.

Raydor jumped in immedietly, "Chief, eighteen years ago I was on Homicide when a female judge named Elizabeth Yanec started recieving notes from an unknown male." She started to dig everything out of the file, she knelt down on the floor and spread everything out, lining it up in a perfect timeline.

"How did you know it was a male?" Brenda asked as she followed Raydor to the floor.

"Here," Raydor stated, pointing down at another note, "he says 'to feel your mouth around my dick would be like heaven'."

"ewh," Brenda said, her nose twitching in disgust. "None of the recent notes have been sexual though."

Raydor shook her head, "They didn't start that way eighteen years ago either, it was the fifth note, here, that he began to be sexually threatening. We found his fifth victim later that day, she'd been raped terribly before he cut her throat." Raydor straightened everything out on the floor as she continued, "Nine victims, all female, the first four were all similair in appearence, they all looked like the judge Elizabeth Yanec, brown hair, green eyes. But the fifth victim, he threw us a total curve ball, black female, in his note he explained that he didn't love Elizabeth because of how beautiful she was, but because of _who_ she was. The black female, Tamra Washington, she was going to law school. The note said that she was stubborn just like Elizabeth, that she would stand for what was right no matter the consequence."

Brenda picked up two pictures, one labled Elizabeth Yanec, the other labled Tamra Washington.

"His victims began to range in race, age, weight, social class. His eighth victim was only fourteen years old," Raydor held up a picture of a smiling blonde teenage girl. "There was no evidence of sexual assault with her though, thank goodness."

"How'd it end? You didn't catch him," Brenda said, hostility she couldn't understand laced with her voice.

Raydor looked up at her, her eyes sad, even a little guilty, "He killed Elizabeth Yanec."

**Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: What? An update? You must be imagining things.**

Brenda, her glasses firmly on her nose, was reading through the eighteen year old autopsy reports when Daniels startled her with a confused and surprised squeak. "Chief!" she called, her pretty curls bouncing wildly as she ran to Brenda's side, "Take a look!"

Held in Daniel's hand was a deceptively sweet pink envelope, 'Brenda Lee Johnson' written on it with a sloppy hand.

Brenda dropped the reports in her hand, standing swiftly to look around the room, as if the man who left the envelope had just slipped through the doors and could still be found. "Where was it?" she demanded, while having Daniel's leave it on Provenza's desktop.

The rest of the squad, including one Sharon Raydor, made their way over, all looking over each other's shoulders to try and see the new note. Daniel's pointed to the box filled with evidence from the case eighteen years ago, the box Sanchez and Tao had just managed to find in the old archives, "It was in there Chief, right next to some blood stained clothes."

"How did he know?" Gabriel asked, "How did he know we'd connected the two cases, it's only been three hours!"

"How did he find out and have time to come and drop the note?" Flynn asked.

Brenda put on a pair of gloves that Tao supplied her with; she hastily withdrew not one, but three pieces of paper from the envelope. She handed one straight to Tao, because it had some sort of website written on it, he nodded and bent over Provenza's computer, typing in the unknown site. She chose another, and read it aloud so that everyone gathered would know what it said.

"Kelly is a cop," Brenda read, and then let out a small gasp that was echoed across the room.

"She is strong, and stubborn, and so much like you. All she ever wanted was to protect and serve, she was shot once, saving the life of a little boy. It was in the paper, and on the news, I almost loved her, but then I saw you."

"Chief," Tao said, looking at the computer screen and then to her. She bent over his shoulder, adjusting her glasses as she did so. "Oh my god," she said.

It was a video feed of a bright little room, it might have even looked like a nursery, except for the bloodied and beaten form of a woman tied down to chair in the center of it. The red headed woman was awake, her lips moving, "Can we hear her?" Flynn asked, not taking his gaze off the screen.

Tao fiddled with the speakers, and a soft voice began to lilt out from the computer, the woman, crying, was mumbling a prayer to god.

"Tao, can you track this?" Brenda asked.

Tao nodded, "I'll need help, maybe Sherltan's squad can-"

"It's a cop," Sanchez said, "We'll get all the help we need."

"Go on," Brenda ordered. Tao scrambled from the room.

She turned and spoke to Daniel's, "Find out who she is, ask every department, every level, find out who this is, now."

Daniel's ran from the room, a determined look on her face.

Brenda once again looked at the note, reading what was left.

"She's still alive. But not for long, you can watch me kill her, if you want.

Yours Truly."

Provenza, wearing gloves of his own, held the third and final paper in his grasp. It looked as if he'd already read it, he had turned very pale. "What does it say?" Brenda snapped.

Provenza's eyes flittered from Brenda to Raydor, and finally to the note. He began to read, "Hello, Sharon."

All eyes turned towards Raydor, who shrank in on herself, and Brenda was reminded of a fortress strengthening the gate.

Provenza continued, "It's been so long, did you miss me? I know that I missed you."

Raydor began to back away, barely a step back, but Flynn was there, wrapping a not exactly gentle hand around her elbow.

"I think of you sometimes. You're the one that got away.

Maybe this time, you won't be so lucky.

Maybe this time I'll take you in the middle of the night.

Maybe this time I'll cut your throat or beat your head in.

Maybe this time I'll ride you until you beg for death.

Maybe this time I'll cut out your tongue and shove my shaft so far down your throat you'll choke and die.

Maybe this time I'll fucking kill you and string up your body for all your little friends, the boys in blue, to see.

Sincerely, the man who is going to murder you and your bastard son."

Raydor had turned very, very pale. Her green eyes whipped up to meet Brenda's, who stared back at her, not knowing quite what to say. Raydor shook, her whole body convulsing in on itself as she brought both hands up to her face and let out a quiet, tiny sob. Flynn retracted his hand so fast you'd think he was burned with acid.

"Captain Raydor," Brenda asked, her tone low and commanding, "explain what the hell that is about, right now."

She shook her head; her long hair fell in front of her down turned face.

"Captain Raydor!" Brenda screamed, "Right now!"

Raydor looked up through her fingers and hair, taking deep hiccupping breaths. She looked past Brenda, straight at Provenza, her green eyes filled with tears. Provenza pushed past Brenda, wrapping Raydor in a powerful and paternal embrace as Raydor shook with thankfully silent sobs.

**Disclaimer: If it ain't mine, and it ain't yours, who the heck does it belong too?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: There must be something wrong with me, I've updated again, that's very **_**unuuuusuuaaaal**_**.**

Sharon Raydor proved to be unwilling to share anything at all about her own involvement with the killer. Brenda, in frustration, had thrown the other woman into an interrogation room, complete with full surveillance. She watched from Buzz's workroom as Raydor paced the small bland room she'd been placed in. Raydor, gnawing on her fingernails in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness, had calmed somewhat.

Brenda whirled to look at both Provenza and Flynn, standing side by side with entirely different looks on their faces. "The both of you were on Homicide eighteen years ago, weren't you?" she demanded.

Flynn and Provenza both nodded.

Brenda rubbed an impatient hand over her face, "Tell me about this case, everything that you remember," she said.

Provenza and Flynn shared a look, after which Flynn began to speak, "Provenza was only there for the arrival of the first note and the finding of the first body, he went on honeymoon with wife number three after that. And I wasn't assigned to this case."

Brenda scowled.

But Flynn continued, "But everyone wanted to know about this case, it was all over the department, the judge, Elizabeth Yanec, she was well liked and well known to the force. We kept as much of it as we could away from the press, eighteen years ago was a rough time, we didn't need to add to it. Yanec was behind us one hundred percent."

Brenda nodded, enraptured by the tale already.

"The senior officer assigned to the case was Donny Frally, but he died five years ago. And running backup for him was Sharon Raydor and Russell Taylor."

"Russell Taylor?" Brenda asked, "As in Russell Taylor?"

"The one and only, Chief," Flynn answered.

Brenda nodded towards Buzz, "Can you please get Taylor up here? I don't care what he's doing, or who he's with, get him up here."

After Buzz left the room, she turned once again to Flynn. Flynn had his arms crossed, looking behind Brenda's shoulder, looking at the video feed of Sharon Raydor. "Can you tell me about Raydor?" Brenda asked, sitting down in Buzz's now vacant seat.

Flynn and Provenza shared another look, after which it was Provenza who began to speak, "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about her from eighteen years ago."

Provenza shrugged, "She was one of the few women in Homicide, and she got ribbed every day, some of it not quite all in fun, if you know what I mean."

Brenda nodded; she knew exactly what it meant. She'd lived through it herself.

Provenza looked uncertain for a moment; he was looking at Sharon Raydor through the monitor. "She," he started as he looked away from the brown haired woman, choosing instead to look at the floor, "She would come to work with bruises."

"Bruises?" Brenda asked, confusion twisting her face unattractively.

Flynn and Provenza shared another look, a look that was somewhere between shamed and uninterested. "Yeah, Chief," Flynn said, "bruises on her arms, on her face, sometimes it looked like her entire face was smashed."

Brenda turned in her seat, staring at the monitor, "Abuse?" she asked, an unbelieving note to her pitch.

Provenza, his shoulders hunched, "Her husband's name was Mathias Riolli."

"Mathias," Brenda mumbled.

"We all knew, we thought we knew, what was happening to her," Flynn said, "but she never asked for help, not once."

Brenda pointed her sharp gaze at Provenza, "But she did, didn't she?"

Provenza looked startled, but shook his head slowly. "She came to work one day, with her two kids, and she was pregnant too," he said, curving his hands out in front of his stomach to illustrate exactly how pregnant she was at the time. "It was early in the morning; I had fallen asleep with my head on the desk the night before. I was already sort of awake when she came in, but my head was still down, she couldn't see me, or maybe she didn't look too hard. Sharon was crying, she was beat to hell. Her daughter, she was eight I think, was crying and screeching up a storm but she looked fine. And her boy, he was older, maybe ten or eleven, the left side of his face was swelling up, but he didn't make a sound."

Brenda's eyes widened, she had never thought of Raydor as the kind of woman to lie down and be beaten, but to let her children be beaten? It was unbelievable. "He abused their children as well?" she asked.

Provenza shook his head, "No, Chief, that was the breaking point. They had fought that morning, Sharon and her husband, when her boy tried to intervene."

Flynn made an astounded sound, "Brave boy."

Brenda looked at him quizzically.

Provenza explained, "Riolli was a big guy, over six foot, a lot of muscle." He took a deep breath and continued with his story, "So she comes in, holding her kids hands, she plops down at her desk. Her face is bleeding, and her little girl is crying, and she's pregnant!" Provenza shook his head, gesturing wildly for them to understand his thought process over a decade ago. "I went over to her, and she just looked at me like she didn't even know what was going on. It was her son, John, who told me what had happened, about the fight, about him trying to stop his dad from hurting his mom. He said they were fighting over the baby. Then Sharon started to get with it a little, she started to hush the little girl, and look around. She had this look of horror on her face, like she just realized where she was."

"Uh-huh," Brenda said.

"I asked her why in the world would she come to work, and she told me she didn't have anywhere else to go. That her mom and dad and the rest of her family all lived in different states, that she couldn't get a hotel because Mathias was in charge of all their money. So," Provenza suddenly looked a little sheepish, "so I bundled them up and took them to my place before the rest of the division could come and see her like that."

"How long did she stay with you?" Brenda asked.

"It took five months for the divorce to go through."

Brenda couldn't believe it, "Sharon Raydor and her two children lived with you for five months eighteen years ago?"

Provenza looked even more sheepish, "She had the baby about a month after moving in."

Flynn was smiling, "How did wife number three feel about this?"

Provenza smiled, "Well actually they got on great, I think Sharon was the only reason number three stayed so long. Right after Sharon left, so did the wife."

"And this was eighteen years ago?" Brenda asked.

"More like seventeen, Chief."

"How did Riolli take it?"

"Not well."

"What happened?"

Provenza sat down in an empty chair, "He showed up at the house, I wasn't there at first, it was just the two women, the kids, and the new baby. When I got there, the door had been kicked open, and I could see Elise, my wife, on the floor. I took out my gun immediately, I made sure Elise was alive and went further in the house. The kids were locked in the bathroom; Riolli and Sharon were in the kitchen. Riolli was holding the baby; he was holding a knife to him. He kept screaming at Sharon that she was a whore, that she told him it was rape, that she had been raped, but he always knew that she was just a whore." Provenza took a deep breath, looking incredibly uncomfortable sharing this much, "He screamed that if it had really been rape then she wouldn't have kept the baby."

Brenda's eyebrows rose, "Sharon Raydor's bastard son," she mumbled, holding up a copy of the note meant for Sharon, the original already having been sent to SID. "What happened? You didn't shoot him?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"Once he saw me with my weapon out he backed down, he shoved the baby back into Sharon's arms. He told her he deserved better than a whore anyway, but he told her he was taking the kids. Sharon told him he was an idiot, that he had just broken into a home, battered two woman, held a knife to a babies neck in front of a uniformed officer, me, and that she could get him twenty years in jail. She made him make a deal, she made me agree to it too, we wouldn't call the disturbance in, and he wouldn't take the kids. I took Elise to the hospital and told them she fell."

"Alright then," Brenda said, "Anything else?"

Provenza seemed to deflate, "Riolli was real olive skinned, black hair, brown eyes. Sharon's older kids, they look just like him."

"And the youngest? What does he look like?" she asked.

"Pale skin, green eyes, dirty blonde."

Brenda nodded, "I see," she said quietly.

**DISCLAIMER: Maybe I _do_ own this, maybe I _am_ TNT, you ever think of that?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: so it occured to me that I had better finish this quick, because Sharon's real story is about to come out, what with 'Major Crimes', so let's see if i can finish this in what 12 hours? whose with me what what yyyeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!**

Her hand was on the doorknob, resting there as she took a deep steadying breath. Her eyes slid slowly shut and she frowned as Sharon Raydor's crying face came into view, followed swiftly by the images of over a dozen dead women, and there, right before she opened her eyes, pink envelopes. Brenda opened the door with a silent promise to herself that she would get answers, no matter what.

As soon as Raydor saw her she stuck her hands in her pockets, her chin tilted defiantly upwards, and her painted lips were pulled taut in a semi-frown.

"Captain Raydor," Brenda said, smiling politely as she sat at the table and waited for the other occupant of the room to do the same.

Raydor chose instead to stand.

"Chief Johnson," Raydor responded, her voice ice cold and closed, "for future reference, I do not appreciate being locked in interrogation rooms."

Brenda huffed, "The door was not locked, Captain."

"Yes," the brunette said, finality in her tone, "it was."

Brenda frowned, thinking back to when Flynn escorted the shaken Captain to this room. Perhaps locking it was an action so ingrained that he did it without thinking? Brenda would have to hope so. "I'm so sorry, Captain, that wasn't my intent," Brenda said, trying to convey earnestness in her gaze.

From the glare Raydor sent her she was going to assume her earnestness was wholly unappreciated. "Am I free to leave?"

"Your youngest son, whose his father?"

Raydor bristled immediately, hackles raised as she responded, "That is none of your concern."

Brenda slipped a copy of one of the notes across the table, Raydor didn't reach for it and it flew off the table top, fluttering down to land by Raydor's heels. "He's being threatened, is that none of my concern?" Brenda said. "We sent a couple of uniforms for him, by the way," Brenda continued, "we're gonna keep him safe." Brenda stood from her seat, rounded the table and looked up at the taller woman, "We could keep you safe too, Captain."

Raydor shook her head.

Brenda didn't look away as she went on, she needed to see the other woman's reactions, needed to analyze. "Provenza witnessed an argument between you and your then husband seventeen years ago," Raydor tensed, recognition flaring in her eyes as she turned to glare horribly into the video camera perched above them, no doubt hoping that Provenza would feel the burn of her displeasure through the feed. "Captain, I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to embarrass you, I don't want to reveal to the world what you have tried so desperately to hide, but I need the truth."

"The father of my son," Raydor said, voice pained and hollow, "was a man I met in a bar. We got drunk, I don't recall his name." Brenda sighed, and rubbed an agitated hand through her hair. "I need to leave," Raydor continued as she walked towards the door. Brenda reached out and grabbed Raydor's elbow, she did it without thought, but regretted it instantly when the other woman tore her arm violently away.

Brenda took a step back, her hands raised, "I'm sorry," she said.

Raydor let an unhappy breath blow out her nose.

"Captain, please, he's got a woman beaten and tied to a chair, he's going to _kill_ her if we don't stop him," Brenda begged, her voice low and urgent, "I need your help, _please_."

That was when Russell Taylor slammed open the door. His gaze swept across the small room before he stepped between Brenda and Sharon, allowing Sharon to swipe at her eyes and apply her mask once again, "You wanted to see me Chief?"

* * *

Russell Taylor, somehow, was even more unhelpful then Raydor. He admitted to having marital problems around the time of the original case, marital problems that drove him away from the precinct regularly, he admitted, without apology, that Sharon had burdened the weight of this particular case.

Brenda knew he was lying, could see it in his overly nonchalant manner, in the way his eyes flicked towards Sharon Raydor's back across the squad room.

Why though? What were they hiding? Raydor had been raped by a murderer almost a decade ago, that much was obvious, had Taylor known all along?

Brenda sighed angrily and threw herself in her chair, tearing a poor innocent kit-kat bar savagely in half.

* * *

When Sharon Raydor's son entered the squad room every eye turned to look at him. He was a handsome boy, to be sure. He was tall, and lean in the gangly way some teenage boys are, but his broad shoulders told Brenda Leigh that he wasn't yet done growing, that he'd fill out that gangly form soon enough. He had one extremely evident blemish on his forehead, which he had tried to cover with his shaggy blonde fringe, unsuccessfully. Sharon Raydor stomped her way to his side, grasping onto his elbow while glaring daggers at Tao, the one who'd pulled the boy from his school and driven him in.

When Brenda stepped up to introduce herself to the boy, smile firmly on her face, she was met with twin glares of cool hostility from mother and son. In his looks he may not have favored his mother, but those eyes, those perfectly jade eyes; they were so much like Raydor's that it was uncanny.

"Half my mid-terms were today, Chief Johnson," the boy, Henry Raydor said, sending Brenda's eyebrows shooting up her forehead. The cadence of his speech, the rhythm, the so polite it seems sarcastic delivery, it was all his mother.

"Well," Brenda said, her anger, her _frustration_ at this particular family getting the better of her, "since a _murderer_ is after you and your mother I thought it best to bring you in. If you'd rather have mid-terms and murder on your roster for today, feel free," she said as she gestured to the door.

It was definitely the wrong thing to say.

Sharon Raydor, her grasp on her son never wavering, turned on her heel, her son following behind her as they both strode towards the door.

"Wait a minute!" Brenda screeched, following after them.

Flynn stepped up to block the duo's path, and Raydor spun, eyes blazing, hair flashing orange in the floresent light, to face Brenda. Raydor snarled at her, "Am I under arrest?"

Brenda took a step back from the ferocity the usually calm woman was exuding, "Of course not," she snapped back, "we just need some answers is all."

Raydor took another step forward, and Brenda had enough time to wonder distantly what the older woman was going to do before high pitched screams, pain filled and horrible, ripped through the squard room.

Brenda whirled to look at the computer screen on Provenza's desk, the computer screen that had shown Kelly tied to a chair for the better part of two hours. Kelly was being stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed, everywhere, by a man wearing all black, a man in a mask. The man stabbed and stabbed and slashed forever, god it felt like forever, until Kelly grew silent, until Kelly's form went limp, her face, her body, unrecognizable as a person under all the gore.

He turned, wiping the bloody knife along his black clad chest, he kneeled down out of view for a moment and reappeared with a large placard, 'Love Forever', written on it in a terribly familair hand. The image was replaced with a video of kittens playing, and Brenda turned away, shaken. She turned to look at Raydor, and found her and her son both gone.

**DISCLAIMER: GOOD GOD MAN GAAAAAHHHHHHH!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: gotta finish this before canon comes and wrecks it yeeeaaahhhhh. sorry it's so rushed, or maybe it's perfect man idek.**

"And why exactly have you called on a massive manhunt for Captain Raydor?" Will Pope screeched as entered Brenda's squad room, his arms thrown up in exasperation.

Brenda sat him down in her office and told him everything.

At the end he sat with his head in his hands, "This," he muttered, "has got to be some kind of joke."

Brenda, remembering the screams of the dying woman, was not amused. "Excuse me?"

He looked up, noticing the distinct hardness of her tone perhaps, and immediately sobered, he cleared his throat and stood. "Get Taylor in here, now!"

Pope ordered him to tell them everything.

Taylor pretended not to know what he was talking about.

Brenda pulled out photos of all the dead women.

Taylor, looking about as uncomfortable as anyone could be, pushed the photos away. "I can't help you," he told them.

"Just tell us! For god's sake! How can you be this cold?!" Brenda said hotly, throwing the photo's back in his face.

"I can't!" he exploded, lunging from his chair.

Then Pope hit Taylor where he was weakest, his career.

"If you don't tell us exactly what you know I am demoting you to the fucking traffic division! Do you hear me?!"

Taylor took a step back as if struck, a complex mix of emotions on his face. "I...I can't." He turned away from them, hand rubbing over his jaw, "I made a promise."

Brenda, like a shark smelling blood in the water, attacked. "A promise?" she echoed, "To Captain Raydor?"

Taylor shook his head; turning to regard them both with barely hidden hostility, and Brenda knew she had won. "To Donny Frally," Taylor said, resentment at telling them anything clear in his tone.

"Donny Frally, the lead investigator for the first spree," she explained to Will.

"What did you promise him?" she asked.

"I promised him, that," Taylor sighed and sat back down in his seat, "I promised him I would never say anything about the night he and I found Elizabeth Yanec and Sharon Raydor in an abandoned building."

Brenda sat down slowly, unwilling to jar Taylor out of his story. Will had other ideas, "Tell us everything, from the beginning, now."

Taylor looked up at the other man with a frown, his eyes distant. "We'd been getting nowhere, he was too good, we weren't gonna catch him, we _knew_ it, all three of us knew it. In our guts. But we thought we could at least keep Elizabeth alive, we could at least do that much." Taylor looked down at the ground, his voice heavier than Brenda could ever remember. "Elizabeth was staying with Sharon in a hotel room," he let out a bitter chuckle, "we thought they'd be safe. But next thing we know Donny's got a note in his hand, and it's saying that Sharon looks so much like Elizabeth, that she's strong like _Elizabeth_, that Elizabeth and Sharon make the same sounds when he's, when he's inside them, that they scream and scream and he can't tell them apart from their screams."

Will Pope sat solidly down on top of Brenda's desk, face contorted into a disgusted angry snarl, hands clenched tight into fists.

"And then we suddenly got a lead, a solid lead, and we know where they are, and we're ready go, and then a fucking riot breaks out on Seventh, a fucking riot, and police are in the line of fire, police officers down. Donny ran around trying to explain that we got another officer in just as much heat, more heat, we got a victim we gotta save, but no one's listening, no one cares about Sharon Raydor the haughty bitch in Homicide, no one cares that Donny Frally, fat ass Donny Frally whose gonna retire in less than a year, needs backup."

Brenda swallowed down the bile that had risen up in her throat.

"So we go alone," Taylor says, a hint of pride tainting his features for a second, "we go alone, with no backup, and we find them both. Tied up and beaten, naked as the day they were born. And you know what, he was right, we couldn't tell them apart, there's one lucid and awake, and one knocked unconscious, and we can't tell them apart. And the one that's awake, we think that's Sharon, because Sharon is strong, she's strong and she's telling us that he's coming back, that he's got an accomplice, that they have more gun power, that we're out of our depth. We've got the unconscious one untied by that time and then we hear him coming, them coming, two men, and they're laughing. And Sharon she's shooing us away, she's telling us to come back for her, that she'll be fine. And..."

Brenda waits for him, unexplainable tears in her eyes.

"And we do, we leave her behind."

The guilt on Taylor's face, pent up inside for more than a decade, looks about ready to break him.

"We try to use the radio, to call for an ambulance, to call for backup, for anything, but all the lines are caught up in that stupid riot on Seventh. And the woman, she wakes up and she's got these bright green eyes and Donny just has to look at um for a second before he knows its Sharon we've got. We turn around, go back, but Yanec is already dead."

Taylor shrugged one shoulder, mouth screwed up, "She's already dead, and the killers are already long gone."

They sat there for a moment, quietly, before Brenda needs the rest of the story. "Why did you cover it up? Why'd he make you promise?"

"Donny loved Sharon like a daughter. And she was taken and beaten and raped and her friend was murdered, and she made it out and her friend didn't, and if the guys in homicide knew all that they would have made her life even more of a living hell then they already did. We didn't even catch the guy, we didn't even catch the fucking guy, and DNA testing was nonexistent, and she would have the laughing stock of the whole department. Donny didn't want that. And for a long time she was in the hospital, and by the time she got out Donny had already told everyone she'd gotten into a car accident."

"Jesus," Will whispered, "Jesus."

"We make it like we're entering the building for the first time a couple of days later, with back up, and Yanec is there waiting for us. Donny had," Taylor took a deep breath, "Donny had covered her up with an old blanket," he let out a shallow chuckle, "the psychoanalyst had a field day with that one."

Brenda cleared her throat, "You said something about Yanec mentioning an accomplice? Did she say who it was?"

Taylor shook his head.

"Did Captain Raydor ever mention anything about this accomplice?" she pressed.

Taylor licked his lips, "They wore masks," he said slowly, "but she told us that," he looked down.

"What did she tell you?" Brenda asked.

"She told us that he knew her, that the way he talked made it seem like he knew her, he called her the 'haughty bitch' from Homicide." He looked up, brown eyes locking with brown eyes as he caught Brenda in a fierce gaze, "She said she thought it was another cop."

**Disclaimer: IF IT WERE MINE MAMA WOULD STILL BE ALIVE, GAAAAAAH, GROSS SOBBING!**


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